When in doubt, write about food:-)

Well, after the NaNoWriMo party today (yes people came), I actually felt like writing when I got home. Unfortunately I became distracted for several hours by my computer games. [Check out "Wik and the Fables of Souls" from RealArcade... lots of fun. Does anyone else think he looks like Gollum?] Of course, as I went to shut down the computer and go to bed, I got the urge to type at least something and surpassed my expectations. I wanted to get to 5000, but didn't think I'd be able to stay awake that long. But I did. So here it is. The saga of Siobhan's Saturday breakfast. Maybe not fascinating reading for everyone, but I'm a foodie. And yes, that is how I make my French Toast. Though I've never tried the coffee that way. Something to do next Saturday:-)

Today's episode:

No point worrying about things while you can't do anything to fix them. So I determined to enjoy myself. I walked to the kitchen and started rummaging through the remains of my latest shopping trip a couple weeks ago. I had obviously been devasted by my breakup with 'Dick' as it wasn't often that I neglected my pantry. Grocery shopping was one of my guilty pleasures and skipping it was a big deal for me. I'd mostly been working late at the branch office though, avoiding 'him' and eating out, so I hadn't noticed until now the sorry state of my food supply. I had some coffee beans left, some stale bread, a couple eggs, and an entire litre of maple syrup.

While shopping at Costco can have its advantages, I also find myself buying insane quantities of items I hardly use like the four bottles of Windex, case of S.O.S. Pads, two bottles of a thousand daily vitamins each, and one litre of maple syrup that were stashed as space allowed throughout the apartment. Well, I wasn't going to waste my Saturday cleaning windows or pots, but I could certainly make a dent in the syrup supply. I took out the eggs and what remained of the milk from the fridge. Grabbing my favourite stainless bowl, the one with just the right depth for mixing and my magiwhisk I set myself up on the island. I tried one-handing the first egg, but after fishing half the shell from the bowl, decided that my daredevil leanings would have to be exorcised only in the meal's calorie count. I carefully cracked open the other egg and started to whisk furiously.

There's something very satisfying about seeing those yellow orbs whisk into a frothy sea. Some people workout, I cook. I get to bang around my food, then get to eat it. Not like my friend Leanna who spends every day at the gym, and convinces herself after that water and a soy bar is enough to satisfy her rumbling stomach. Whatever. Give me a good fry-up over treadmills and squats any day. Of course, it's obvious what my choice is, but I'd look stupid if I were rail thin anyway. Besides, she never has any problem eating my food when she visits either.

I sliced the stale parisienne loaf into thickish slices and imagined what Leanna would say. “All those carbs, Siobhan. Those aren't good for you. And don't you dare eat that bread with eggs. You know you can't mix carbs and proteins. It'll make you fat.” Yeah well, already there, dearie, and loving it. Besides, doesn't everyone know that food consumed on a Saturday before Noon is calorie free? That reminded me, if there was ever a time to be decadent, this was it. I strode over to my spice cupboard and located the cinnamon-sugar and the vanilla. (Despite my reservations about buying a litre of vanilla – how could I possibly use it all? -- there wasn't much left. Mental note, buy another litre next Costco run.) I sprinkled, no dumped, a liberal amount of cinnamon sugar into the eggs and whisked again. Then I stirred in the last couple glugs of the milk and a splosh of vanilla. Already the kitchen was smelling good. I put the bread slices in a baking pan, poured over the egg, turned the bread, and left it to sit.

My favourite frying pan was sitting in the sink. Ugh. Obviously I hadn't been in a mood to clean the last time I used it, so some elbow grease was in order. Well, maybe more like grease up to the elbow. I gave the pan a generous squirt of my apple-scented dishsoap (hey, horrible chores may as well smell nice), and filled it with hot water. I reached for the S.O.S. Pad that lived in the mouth of my kitchen frog. Rusty. Time for a new one, so I padded my way to the supply closet in the hall. I grabbed another pad--only 475 left to use—and returned to the sink.

After scrubbing the pan clean, I set it on the stove to dry/heat. Once it was dry and suitably hot, I added far too much butter then watched it melt and bubble. Once it liquified, I turned down the heat and carefully added the eggy, squidgy bread. While it fried slowly, I started on the coffee. I added the beans to the grinder and made enough noise for thirty seconds to wake the apartment block. The resulting smell of rich, slightly bitter, overroasted coffee started to wake me up. I filled the coffee maker with filtered water and set it to brew.

The french toast would need another couple of minutes before it needed flipped, so I decided to be good and get some excercise before consuming the million calories on the menu. I padded back out to the hall, tried to remember which way was East, and set about doing my Sun Salutations. While I really wasn't keen on 'working out', yoga was my one physical pursuit of choice. I loved the way that just holding a position and breathing could make me feel awake and alert, not to mention sexy. There's something very empowering about being able to flex in many different directions. For the last couple of weeks I hadn't wanted to feel very alert (or sexy), so I'd avoided my daily regime, but my body was telling me that had been a really bad idea. I creaked and cracked as I moved first from Mountain to forward bend, and again into lunge. My hamstrings screamed as I tried to stretch them out in Downward Dog. My breathing became more strained. But after a couple complete Salutations, everything loosened and started to flow. It even felt so good that I did twice as many as usual. Eight total. Not a lot. Certainly not the 108 that some yogis practise each morning, but enough for me.

I could smell the cinnamon and coffee wafting from the kitchen as I relaxed into Child's Pose and decided the toast needed a flip. I walked back to the stove, with a lighter step now, and carefully turned each slice. Next, I grabbed my favourite 'café au lait' bowl from the drying rack and started to walk to the fridge. Right, I already finished the milk. No 'au lait' today then. Okay, I can improvise. I dug my Haagen-Daas French Vanilla from the freezer and dropped a generous clomp into the mug. As I poured the hot coffee over the ice cream it melted into a beige lake of goodness with a ring of foam. Sip. Yum!

I took another sip and another waiting for that morning coffee buzz to kick in... then remembered that I only drink decaf. The allergy gods had cursed me again. At least I could still eat French Toast. I moved back to the pan and lifted a slice to check its progress. Deep, golden brown. Perfect. To the plate! I slid the slices onto my appetite-suppressing blue plate, wrenched open the new maple syrup jug, and drowned the toast in the beautiful liquid gold. I even added a slosh to my coffee, just for good measure. It is perishable after all. No time to use it like the present. I grabbed my plate and my 'café érable à Haagen-Daas' and made my way to the living room.

My living room was well used. It was TV room, office, and general storage facility. While my apartment lacked built in storage space, I compensated by lining every wall of the living room with full-height IKEA armoires. I had considered shelves, but decided that doors were important. While I wanted to be able to store all my possessions, I didn't want to have to look at them all the time. Even my computer and TV could be hidden if I wanted.

This morning the TV was required viewing, but the piles of bills on the computer desk did not need an audience. I pushed the doors shut with my elbow as I walked past. I settled myself into the well-worn spot in the corner of the chesterfield, balanced my plate on my crossed legs and set my bowl of coffee on its table. Next I switched on the TV. A man with a fake-sounding British accent yelled into the quiet of my home: “see? It's jus tha easy, luv. All y'ave ta doo is make two easy payments of”-- click. When did people decide that infomercials were appropriate Saturday viewing? When I was growing up, the only shows on Saturday mornings were cartoons. What ever happened to those? Right, too violent. Because every kid in America is going to perch a large boulder on a cliff in the futile hopes of crushing a fast little desert bird and end up crushing themselves. Nope, stop that. It's Saturday, no thinking allowed. Between bites of syrupy, eggy, cinnamony toast, I managed to turn the TV back on and switch it to the cartoon network. Ah, best invention ever. A little bit of Saturday solace any time, any day. I had switched just in time for the start of “Jacob Two-Two”. Yippee! My favourite Canadian cartoon. My favourite Canadian cartoon. Ooh, déjà vu. I'm such a geek. I watched Jacob's attempt to save the little old lady from across the street from the greedy, evil plans of this week's villain and ate my French Toast between gulps of coffee. For a Saturday, this was perfect.

The show ended and I finished my last bite of breakfast. I checked the clock. Eleven fifty-seven. Finished just in time. Homemade breakfast: five dollars. Finishing the meal during the 'no calorie' window: priceless. Nothing could ruin my day now. Well, of course something 'could', but I resolved that nothing 'would'. Regardless what had happened at work, I resolved to live for me that Saturday. I resolved that whatever I wanted to do, I would do with zeal and gusto. So, I leapt from the chesterfield, sashayed my dishes back to the kitchen, and poured myself another bowl of coffee... this time with two scoops of frozen vanilla.